


Send Off

by YellowMustard



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Connor swears, Evan swears, Everyone is friends, Fluff, Funeral, Humor, M/M, Panic Attacks, Suicide Attempt, The Squad, Tree Bros, YES AGAIN WITH THE SOFT CONNOR, but no character death, connor is a good boyfriend, insecure evan, jared is actually a decent friend, kind of implied PTSD?, soft connor, soft times~, some super mild smut, they all swear really, yes i said what i said
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 09:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20061604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowMustard/pseuds/YellowMustard
Summary: “We’re here for the funeral,” chirps Alana excitedly.Evan stares at her blankly. He feels like he’s just been told a riddle by somebody who already knows the answer.(Or: Connor, Zoe, Alana and Jared help Evan say goodbye)





	Send Off

**Author's Note:**

> Yooooo here we are again, guys!
> 
> I just really wanted an excuse to write The Squad™, because I haven't really done it before. And Jared, who's been absent from all my fics so far because I DON'T KNOW HOW TO WRITE JARED.
> 
> I just. Love the idea of Evan having a supportive little group of friends SO. MUCH. 
> 
> No character death, but please read the tags! References to suicide attempts, panic attacks, overdose. Swearing, and some mild sexual content (but it's right at the start so you could probably scroll past it if you wanted to).
> 
> Thank you for all the amazing support on my other stories, you're wonderful humans and I love you and I am UNWORTHY of all your lovely comments <3

* * *

The whole situation could have been avoided if it weren't for Evan's fucking stupid twitching leg.

Everything’s been absolutely perfect up until that moment. More than perfect. Evan’s finished his senior year, actually survived the high school experience, and he's eighteen now, and there’s a warm stream of sunlight filtering through the curtains, and he doesn’t have any responsibilities to think about in the near future, and summer is stretching out in front of him, endlessly.

And Connor Murphy is on top of him.

He's in Connor Murphy's bed, and they have the house to themselves, and he's warm and happy and stupidly in love, and Connor Murphy is on top of him.

The corner of Connor's mouth is quirking upwards, and his eyes are dark and heavy-lidded. He's still wearing his jeans. Evan wriggles a little, and the denim feels rough against his bare legs.

"Whatcha thinking?" Connor asks, a teasing lilt to his voice, and he’s trailing his fingertips, feather light, from Evan's collarbone all the way down to his naked stomach, then back up again, and Evan shudders, feeling weightless, boneless, untethered.

"Nothing, now." Evan manages to reply. "Brain's melting."

Connor laughs softly in response. His fingers continue to skim, tauntingly gentle, up and down Evan's torso, and Evan writhes underneath him, moaning weakly.

"Oh yeah?" Connor says, sounding far too cocky considering he's just as breathless as Evan is. He rolls a nipple between his thumb and index finger, his touch still _light light light_, as his other hand continues its aimless journey.

Evan throws his arm over his face and mumbles “You’re gonna kill me,” into the crook of his elbow, and Connor smirks. He scoots down from where he’s been straddling Evan’s hips and begins mimicking the path of his fingers using his tongue, and Evan quivers, whimpering helplessly, fingers tangling in Connor’s hair. It’s like Connor’s got every single one of Evan’s nerve endings completely at his mercy, locked in and focused on _Connor, _and Evan can feel long eyelashes brushing his chest and ribs and stomach as Connor kisses his way towards his hips. It’s almost too much to bear.

Evan’s practically vibrating by the time Connor reaches the waistband of his underwear. He pauses there, mouth just barely grazing the elastic, and looks up at Evan with a knowing smile, all cheeky and boyish and so fucking _pretty_. Evan can’t help the begging whine of “Fuck, _Connor,” _that slips out, and he knows he sounds desperate but he can’t bring himself to care.

Connor responds with a satisfied little hum against Evan’s skin, then scrapes teeth over Evan’s hipbone. Then bites down. Hard.

Evan’s not sure if it’s that he wasn’t expecting it, or if it’s that Connor’s bitten a pressure point or something, or if it’s just that it feels really fucking good, but his leg jerks reflexively, and he lets out a surprised little yelp that makes them both giggle. And as Evan lies there, laughing at his own stupid noise as Connor presses gentle kisses over the indentations of his teeth, he vaguely realises that he’s heard another sound. Quiet, but there. Plasticky, kind of? Maybe like something hitting the wall?

Evan props himself up on his forearms and scans the rumpled sheets, looking for the source of the noise. His mind is still foggy from Connor’s touch, and it takes him a moment to register. 

The little foil packet. The little foil packet that had been sitting on the bed next to Evan’s thigh, ready for when they needed it later, is no longer there. Evan must have somehow kicked it when his leg had twitched. He tosses the covers back, searching, but it’s gone. Probably slipped down the narrow gap between Connor’s bed and the wall.

“The…the condom,” Evan says breathlessly, and Connor’s eyes flick to the bed, then the wall. He rolls off of Evan, flopping onto his back beside him.

“Idiot,” says Connor with a snort, but he doesn’t even bother trying to mask the warm affection in his voice.

Evan looks at him expectantly, and Connor stares straight back, then pointedly looks at the wall and back at Evan, and OK, apparently Evan’s on retrieval duty. He gives an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes when Connor snickers, and begins trying to wedge his arm into the tight gap.

“Why am I the one doing this?” Evan complains. He’s struggling; his arm barely fits and his fingers aren’t anywhere close to the floor. “You’ve got skinnier wrists. You could help me.”

“I _am_ helping. I’m providing moral support.”

Evan turns his head in Connor’s direction, scoffs. Connor smiles sweetly in response.

“Can’t you just…grab another one?”

“Last one.”

“Fuck.”

Evan stretches his arm down as far as it will go, grimacing in discomfort and wondering if he’s actually going to be able to get it back out again. His fingers finally brush floorboard, and he makes a triumphant little noise as he manages to grasp the jagged edge of the wrapper.

Except there’s something else down there, too. Paper, crumpled into a tight little ball. Probably garbage, Evan decides. He grabs it anyway, and, with difficulty, wriggles his arm back out. He tosses the condom at a grinning Connor, then holds up the paper ball.

“Found this, too,” he says.

Connor furrows his brow in confusion.

“What is it?”

“I dunno. It was under _your_ bed. Trash, I guess.”

It’s thin and dusty, yellowed a little, like it’s been hiding in that dark corner of Connor’s room for months. It’s been balled up so aggressively that the edges tear as Evan smooths it open, the creases so deep they appear as wrinkles in a very old face. Evan presses the paper flat.

He immediately feels his stomach sink in realization.

Evan knows this paper. He knows it all too well.

Size eleven font. Calibri. Left-aligned.

Evan’s vision blurs.

_Dear Evan Hansen,_

Evan tries to swallow, but he’s suddenly lost control of his throat, mouth, jaw, tongue.

_It turns out, this wasn’t an amazing day after all._

Evan tries to look away. Can’t.

_This isn’t going to be an amazing week or an amazing year. Because why would it be? _

Evan feels the edges of his vision turning white. Evan can’t breathe.

_I wish that everything was different. I wish I was part of something. I wish that anything I said mattered to anyone. I mean, face it. Would anyone notice if I just disappeared tomorrow? _

Evan can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

He feels the paper being prised from his fingers, and he can hear Connor saying something, but he sounds far away, or maybe underwater.

“Shit...shit, I had no idea that was even back there. Shit.”

And suddenly there are fingers against Evan’s cheeks, pressing lightly, and the touch is grounding and tangible and _real. _Evan blinks hard, forcing his eyes to refocus, and chokes back a gasping lungful of air. He grips Connor’s wrists, squeezing one in each hand, tight, too tight. Almost mechanically, his thumbs drag back and forth along Connor’s wrists, along Connor’s scars, and it makes his chest ache but also gives him a strange sense of relief, because Connor has _survived. _Connor has survived and survived and kept on surviving. Connor is _alive. _

“Ev, you OK?”

Connor sounds so worried, so genuinely and heartbreakingly scared for him. It makes Evan want to cry.

“I’m… I don’t know.”

It’s the truth. He doesn’t know. He’s still trying to ground his senses enough so he can figure it out.

“OK,” Connor says hesitantly. “Um…That’s OK. You don’t have to know. Just…”

Connor’s shifting, pulling his hands away from Evan’s cheeks and sliding them over Evan’s shoulders. He tugs gently, pulling Evan close to him, and Evan lets himself be pulled for a moment before falling into Connor’s arms with a shaky sigh of relief.

Connor holds him, and kisses the top of his head, for some reason it’s that, that little gesture of comfort and tenderness, that completely breaks him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realizes that the mood from earlier is totally ruined, but it doesn’t seem to matter anymore.

Evan buries his face in the crook of Connor’s neck as he feels the tears welling.

He sees himself, almost a full year ago, at Ellison State Park. He sees the forty-foot oak tree, branch after branch after branch. He sees the sun.

He hears the sickening crunch as he hits the ground.

Connor holds him.

He sees himself, in the computer lab, typing the letter. A pep talk, it was supposed to be. Happy thoughts. What a joke. He sees himself type, sees the words appear on the screen like he’s not in control of them.

And then Connor’s there. Connor’s there, and he signs his cast, and for a moment everything’s OK. Kind of OK. They dance around each other, and it’s awkward and uncomfortable, but it’s OK.

It’s fine.

But then Connor looks down. He reads the letter. And then he’s yelling and swearing and shoving Evan aside as he storms out, Evan’s letter still held in a clenched fist.

Connor holds him.

He sees Cynthia Murphy’s red-rimmed eyes. Larry Murphy’s tight, pained expression.

He sees the chipping varnish on Mr Howard’s desk, the stained rings of coffee. His hands are sweaty, but he feels cold, too. Cold and numb, like all the life has been sucked out of room.

And Cynthia Murphy is talking to him, tremulous and strained, _these were the words he wanted to share with you. _

The room gets colder as Evan’s brain frantically tries to piece together what’s going on. What the _fuck_ is going on?

Somehow, the pit of his stomach has already figured it out. He feels like he might throw up.

_Connor tried to take his own life…overdose…Sacred Heart Hospital…we didn’t know you two were friends…didn’t think Connor had any friends…addressed to you._

And Evan sees the desperation, the anguish of Connor’s parents.

And he seriously considers lying to them.

Saying _yes. My best friend. Connor Murphy is my best friend._

He doesn’t.

His words come out in a rush, choked and frenzied. _No, that’s not, it’s mine, it’s mine it’s mine it’s mine, I wrote it, it’s a therapy assignment, for my anxiety, a letter to myself, Connor and I, we aren’t we’re not I don’t--_

He sees the exact moment Cynthia Murphy’s face crumples in despair.

Connor still holds him.

He sees himself, shuffling awkwardly in Connor’s bedroom doorway, the day after he’s been discharged.

Evan still to this day isn’t sure why he’d done that, shown up to Connor’s house. He didn’t even _know_ him, then.

He sees Connor, in pajama pants and an oversized sweater that dwarfs his practically skeletal frame. He looks pale, and still kind of sickly, and he keeps both arms wrapped around himself like he’s cold even though it’s just barely fall.

Neither of them know what to say.

But neither of them say the word ‘suicide’, not even once.

Evan eventually musters up the courage to ask. Because he has to know.

_Your parents. They, um. They thought my therapy note was…they thought you wrote it. They found it in your pocket. They thought it was your…goodbye note._

Connor picks at his sweater sleeve.

_It was._

Evan stares at him, heart in his throat.

_I dunno. You just…you said everything I already wanted to say, I guess. Why reinvent the wheel?_

And still, still Connor holds him.

“I didn’t want to think about this ever again,” Evan mumbles, shifting slightly in Connor’s arms. “I don’t want to be thinking about this _now.”_

“I’m _so _sorry, Ev,” Connor whispers brokenly. His voice is heavy with guilt, and it makes Evan’s heart clench painfully.

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t know it was back there.”

“Still.”

Evan runs his fingers through Connor’s hair, hoping the distraction will stop his hands from shaking.

It doesn’t work.

“I…I just…”

“Tell me,” Connor says gently, patiently.

“I just…I don’t…I wish it had never happened. I wish I hadn’t jumped out of that fucking tree. I wish you hadn’t tried to…tried to…I just wish none of it ever happened.”

Connor bites his lip, deep in thought.

“OK,” he finally replies, and he’s still speaking to Evan gently, but his voice is steadier now. “But it did, though. You can’t just…erase all that. You can’t pretend like it didn’t--”

“No, I know…I just…” Evan takes a shaky breath.

He doesn’t want to admit this, but he knows he has to.

“It’s like I’m back there again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Looking at this again, it’s like. After all this time it’s like I’m back there in that tree. Like I’m there, at the very top, and looking down, and. Fuck, Connor. I’m scared. I’m scared I’ll end up back there…”

“OK,” Connor soothes. He runs his hands up and down Evan’s arms, trying to ease the tremors. “OK.”

“And…and _you. _I just…fuck. It’s like. It’s not something I want to think about. Not _ever. _But it’s like—it’s like—it’s like, like—”

Evan hasn’t stammered like this in months, and he hates it hates it hates it. He’s trembling and crying and somehow feels hot and cold at the same time, and he’s dizzy and sick and…

“Hey, you’re OK, it’s OK,” Connor’s whispering, but Evan can’t stop talking. His sudden panic bubbles in his throat and rushes out of his mouth in a long string of garbled syllables.

“It’s like watching a movie that I can’t turn off I just see you just lying there all alone and you’re on the ground and nobody is there to help you and there’s pills everywhere and you’re _dying_ and nobody’s coming nobody’s coming to help you and it’s cold you’ve got my note _our _note in your pocket and you’re _dying you’re dying Connor fuck—"_

“Evan. Evan, _stop.” _

Connor is gripping Evan’s shoulders hard, squeezing his fingers into Evan’s flesh until it hurts. Evan tries to focus on that; the hurt, rather than the nightmarish images flickering behind his eyes.

“Evan. We’re not there now. It’s over. It’s done with.”

Connor speaks slowly, his voice firm. He doesn’t take his eyes from Evan’s, not even for a second.

This would usually help tether Evan back to reality, but today…

“But…what if it’s not? What if—”

“Evan. It _is. _It’s _done._”

Connor lies down on his back, pulling Evan as close as he can, his head against Connor’s shoulder. Connor strokes his back, his hair, doing his best to calm Evan down.

He’s still murmuring _it’s done, it’s done _almost twenty minutes later.

Evan tries very hard to believe him.

* * *

It takes a full week for the nightmares to stop.

Every night, for a full week, Evan sees empty pill bottles. He sees Connor curled in a ball, vomit still clinging to his lips, wracked with pain and _alone alone alone_. He sees himself plummeting from a tree, hitting the ground headfirst like he’d originally intended.

He sees what could have been. What almost was.

The nightmares eventually stop, but the dull feeling of emptiness remains.

Evan hates, more than anything, the way things used to be. For himself, for Connor. He hates that they were both so alone and it took such an absolute disaster to bring them together. He hates that either of them ever, _ever_ had to feel that way.

And he’s terrified.

He’s terrified either one of them might end up back there. Back at the top of a tree, or curled on a bathroom floor in an empty house.

He doesn’t tell Connor. Puts on a brave face. He gets the feeling that Connor knows something is wrong anyway, because when they’re apart (which is not very often) he texts Evan way more than usual, and when they’re together he often catches Connor sneaking looks at him, concern darkening his eyes.

But he won’t tell Connor about it. He won’t. Because _fuck_, what if thinking about all this too much brings up bad memories for Connor as well? What if Connor thinks about all this shit too much and tries again? What if Connor tries again and succeeds and it’s _Evan’s fault?_

It’s a long week. He spends most of it glaring at his twitchy fucking leg and wishing he’d never found his own horrible fucking note.

By Friday, he’s almost tempted to call Connor and just tell him everything. The dam that’s been holding back all his emotions is well and truly at breaking point, and he feels lost and isolated and just so _sad. _And he doesn’t think he can be alone in his empty, silent house for one more minute without losing his mind.

When Evan’s doorbell unexpectedly rings, however, he immediately changes his tune.

God, he hates answering the door to strangers. What if it’s pizza he didn’t order, or kids playing ding-dong-ditch, or Jehovah’s Witnesses? How is one supposed to _deal_ with any of these situations?

Hesitantly, Evan opens the door by a few inches and peaks out the gap.

He’s more than a little taken aback by what he sees.

It’s Connor. That part’s not really all that surprising.

But not just Connor.

It’s Connor and Zoe and Alana and Jared.

Alana’s dressed all in black.

Evan’s not sure why that’s the first thing he notices, but it’s a little jarring. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Alana in all black before. Evan casts his eyes over the odd little cluster of them and realizes, belatedly, that they all are. They’re _all_ dressed in black, standing close together; an ominous, inky blob in Evan’s doorway.

Jared is wearing a suit.

Why is Jared wearing a suit?

Evan stares and stares, dumbfounded.

“We’re here for the funeral,” chirps Alana excitedly.

Evan continues to stare. He feels like he’s just been told a riddle by somebody who already knows the answer.

He’d be lying if he said his stomach didn’t twist a little at the word “funeral”. An image of Connor, lying on the ground, choking and struggling to breathe, forces itself to the forefront of his mind.

He pushes it back.

“The…um…what?”

All four of them open their mouths to explain, but Jared is the quickest.

And the loudest.

_“So_ sad. He was…so young. So young!” Jared blubbers, dabbing theatrically at his eyes with a handkerchief.

In his other hand he holds an ugly bunch of artificial dollar-store flowers.

“I just. I can’t _believe _it. I can’t believe he’s _gone!” _

And with that, Jared breaks into a painfully melodramatic howl of “Nooooo!”, then turns and weeps into Zoe’s shoulder, who rolls her eyes and immediately tries to shrug him off. Jared holds tight.

“I told you we shouldn’t have invited him.” Zoe has to raise her voice to be heard over Jared’s high-pitched sobs, and Connor grimaces, apparently in agreement.

Jared breaks into a bad poetry recital of what Evan thinks is supposed to be _Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night_. He yowls it skywards, shaking his fists for emphasis, and gets most of the words completely wrong. Dylan Thomas must be rolling over in his grave.

Zoe once again shouts to be heard over the theatrical tour-de-force that is Jared Kleinman.

“Can we come in?”

Evan nods dumbly, and steps aside to let them pass.

Jared’s finished his performance by the time he steps inside, scoffing, “Mrs Martella said I’d never have a career in Drama. Wish she could’ve seen _that._”

The girls are kicking off their shoes, chatting among themselves and pointedly ignoring Jared.

Evan still has no idea what the fuck is going on.

He grabs Connor’s arm, and Connor turns to face him, an uncertain little half-smile on his face.

He’s holding a shoe box in both hands.

“Connor, what…is all this? What funeral? What’s _happening?_”

Connor gives the shoe box an awkward little shake, and Evan hears something bumping around inside.

“Thought he deserved a proper send off,” says Connor. He pulls back the lid of the box, just enough so Evan can peak inside.

It’s a tight ball of paper. Yellowed and creased.

It’s his letter. Evan’s letter.

“It was all Connor's idea,” gushes Alana, resting a friendly hand on Connor’s forearm. “When he told me about it, I was so happy to be involved. I think it’s wonderful. Very symbolic.”

“Connor said you've been having a bad time,” Zoe says gently, “He’s been…we’ve _all_ been really worried.”

People are worried about him. About _Evan. _Which still feels new and unfamiliar and strange. 

Connor looks down at the shoe box for a moment. When he looks up at Evan again, he looks almost embarrassed, like he’s second-guessing himself, like he’s suddenly afraid this whole idea is stupid.

“I just thought…” Connor mutters, “I thought maybe you needed to find a way to put this to rest. To declare this shitty stage in our lives dead and gone and just…move forward. Not forget about it or push it under the rug or whatever, but. I dunno. To accept it? To accept that it happened, and it sucked, and now it’s done. It’s dead. So we bury it. Ceremonial and stuff. I thought…”

“You...want to have a funeral. For my therapy letter? For... your suicide note? For our...?”

Evan breaks off with an overwhelmed, teary laugh. Because Connor is just…so wonderful.

Not just Connor, though. All of them. Just the fact that all four of these wonderful human beings have dressed in formal black in the middle of summer, and come to his house to have a funeral for a _piece of paper_ in hopes that it makes Evan feel better, and Jared is wearing a goddamn _suit _for the occasion…

Evan feels warm and light and the exact opposite of alone.

“A funeral for our goodbyes,” offers Connor softly.

He reaches out and links his pinky finger with Evan’s.

“A goodbye to your goodbyes, if you will,” Jared adds, grinning warmly. “Like…goodbye squared.”

They troop out into Evan’s backyard. It’s stiflingly hot outside, and Evan’s not even wearing black like the rest of them, but nobody seems to mind much. They chatter mindlessly about plans for the summer, and college, and Zoe’s senior year coming up. Jared unearths a shovel from god knows where and begins digging gleefully, and Evan can’t help but wince a little as he completely destroys a patch of lawn way too large for the shoe box. He hopes Heidi won’t be too upset.

Connor holds his hand the entire time, and every now and then yanks Evan’s fingers up to his lips and kisses his knuckles.

For the first time in a full week, Evan doesn’t see death when he closes his eyes.

Jared hurls the box into the gaping hole in the ground, snickers pointedly at Zoe’s _Christ, Jared, why’s the hole so big?_ Then grabs his crappy plastic flowers and stabs them into the soft earth right behind the box’s resting place, like a hideous little tombstone. For some reason, the gesture makes Evan laugh, and then Connor’s laughing too, and then all five of them are standing in a tight, black little circle, cackling at the fake, cheap flowers sticking up at all angles as they burst from the ground.

“I still think we should’ve had a Viking funeral,” Jared complains.

Connor snorts. “As if any of us would trust you to _shoot an arrow that’s on fire_, Kleinman.”

Evan looks down at the lid of the shoe box, surrounded by dirt and artificial petals.

“Well,” says Alana quietly, playing the part as always, “Would anyone like to say a few words?”

“Yeah, _me_,” says Jared, because of course he does.

He coughs loudly.

“So. Controversial opinion, but I'm glad the letter's dead. What a dick. It like…made life real difficult for these two fuckin’ losers here who, believe it or not, I happen to love and adore. So, the letter can fuck off and die. Fuck you, letter.”

Jared scoops up a handful of dirt and tosses it onto the lid of the shoe box.

Evan lets out a soft laugh, because if he doesn’t he thinks he might cry.

Jared’s his friend, one of his best friends, but he’s…an asshole. He doesn’t just _say_ things like that, not ever. Jared doesn’t actually admit that he cares about Evan. And he certainly doesn’t admit that he cares about Connor.

Jared’s staring at his shoes, but Evan catches his eyes, and is surprised to see that _Jared_ is tearing up a little.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jared mutters, sniffling. “Don’t cream your pants about it, OK?”

“I think there’s more to it than that,” Alana interjects, ever the diplomat. “We wouldn’t all be together here now if not for Evan’s letter. While I’m very happy to say goodbye to this chapter, because it’s a very sad one, I think it’s important to acknowledge where we all are now. The letter represents a very rough period in Evan and Connor’s lives, but look how far they’ve come. Look how far we’ve all come.”

Alana scoops up her own handful of dirt and adds it to the makeshift grave.

“I’d, um. Like to say something, actually,” says Zoe, hesitantly, and all eyes land on her.

“I wanna talk about Connor.”

Connor balks a little at this, but Evan gives his fingers a squeeze and nods for Zoe to continue.

“Evan, I know you’ve probably been freaking out about Connor’s attempt just as much as your own, if not more. Shit, what am I saying, _definitely_ more. But. Looking at Connor and just…how much progress he’s made this year? Connor, you’ve…you’ve worked so hard. And now you’re like…my brother again.”

Zoe’s voice has gone all wobbly. Connor’s grip on Evan’s hand tightens, and when Evan gives him a sideways glance, he sees his bottom lip quivering slightly.

“And I know it’s scary, thinking about the possibility that things might get bad again. But…I think you could both _cope _with it now. I really really do. This letter, it’s like. It’s like you’re not even the same _people _anymore. So I’d like to say goodbye to past Evan and past Connor. And welcome the new ones. They’re…really good guys.”

Zoe scoops a handful of dirt onto the shoe box.

Connor clears his throat and lets go of Evan’s hand to wipe the sudden onslaught of tears from his face.

Clears his throat again.

“It was Evan,” he croaks. “This…version of me. It only exists because…because…Evan, you came. You came to my fucking house after I was let out of the hospital. You didn’t even know me but you came. And _you_…Ev, I don’t think you realize how far you’ve come this year. I mean, when you think about your life as it is, right now, do you still feel invisible? Do you still feel like nobody would notice if you were gone?”

Evan glances around at the teary faces, and shakes his head violently.

“You’re going to be fine, Evan. We’re _both _going to be fine. Maybe not perfect, not every day. But we’re going to _make it.”_

Connor adds a heap of dirt to the pile.

Jared and Alana and Zoe and Connor all turn to look at Evan.

He takes a deep breath.

“Bye, _Dear Evan Hansen_. I don’t miss you. But I can't ignore that it...happened. Connor and I…we were trapped in those words, once. But we’re here now. We’re all here now. And everything’s OK.”

Evan scoops a final handful of dirt onto the box.

And then they’re heading into the house, feet muddy from the dug-up lawn, and Jared announces that he’s ordering Chinese food and what does everyone want? And the mood seems brighter, suddenly. Like a heavy storm has just passed over their heads.

Evan heads towards the back door to follow them, but a hand tugs him back.

Connor’s still lingering behind in the backyard. He looks uncertainly at the ugly little grave, the falling-apart flowers, then back at Evan.

“Hey, was this all…alright? I didn't make you like…uncomfortable or anything?”

Evan lets out a gust of air, then laughs a little.

“Oh my god, no. This was…I didn’t realize how much I needed it. And everyone was…really great.”

Connor smiles. He looks relieved.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I've put something to rest. Buried but not forgotten.”

Evan looks through the glass sliding door at Jared, who’s cheerfully shouting something about ordering twenty-eight servings of Kung Pao chicken, and Zoe, who’s shrieking as she tries to wrestle his phone out of his hands. And Alana, who’s already pouring soda for everyone and setting the glasses neatly at the dining table. On coasters, of course.

And they’re wonderful. They’re absolutely wonderful. More than Evan deserves.

His eyes flit back to Connor. To the warm summer breeze ruffling his hair, and his bare feet caked with dirt, and his eyes like a winter sky, cutting through the heat of the afternoon.

And he’s home. 

Evan takes one last look at the shitty little grave. The mounds of dirt, the top of the shoe box still peaking through, the plastic flowers.

Then he takes Connor’s hand and heads back into the house.


End file.
